Category Archives: Poetry

I have been thinking lately of how we are taught to love. We are taught to love in the larger sense of the word: not to feel but to act. There is a dichotomy here that must not be ignored, lest you find yourself relying solely on the feeling which tends to waver. We have the ability to order our actions. This is why love must fall under this category of our lives as well! 🙂

The bible teaches over and over again that we should love to the point of offending people. Jesus told us that we should expect persecution for following the way that he loved. The disciples and apostles understood this in a way that we don’t. They were drug from their homes, imprisoned, beaten, and some even put to death for the sake of love. So, naturally, I wrote a poem.*

They pulled me by my elbows out into the streets.

Those same elbows, ten years younger, rested on the table as my Lord spoke to me of love.

Serving rich red wine around the group of friends:

We wondered while we sipped if this was once water, and smiled in remembrance of His party tricks.

We didn’t know then what we know now- We were still celebrating a wedding.

Now my feet drag through the sun warmed dust. I can’t help myself

as I give into sin:

digging my heels into the dirt a little more to make their job harder.

Oh, “Love thy neighbor”

I pick up my feet and walk.

Repentance.

Check.

My ears perk up at the familiar sounds of soldiers ransacking

my things.

Pure muscle, they are.

And pure soul, I am reminded.

Is it sinful to smile, knowing I’ve barely anything to my name?

I have much more tangible things to give than teapots and a sleeping mat.

one is traveling at the rate of 74 km per hour and while trying to convert that to miles to figure the approximate point in time they will reach the intersection,

the other is practically jumping its tracks because

graffiti is art too

and two lovebirds are eloping in one of her cars.

For heaven’s sake, pop the cork and sit on that chair.

Not the brown one, but the big fluffy one that I thought could be off limits the first few times. Like maybe one of those sitcom dads would appear at the top of the stairs wagging his finger to the amusement of the studio audience.

It didn’t happen.

I will curl up on the ottoman and have the audacity to paw at your knees every so often in a sort of mixed up, shaken

How much more the tone of your voice within the context of the quiet
How much more the warmth in your eyes when there is nothing else to pull our gaze from yours.
How diminished is our self-seeking voice
And how august our words of praise
When our voice is allowed to reach your ears.

Pressing in, further still
We are rewarded, in turn, by mercy
Gently speaking worth into our being
Gently affirming our significance within your design

The hunger that was absent just moments before
Is insatiable now.
It is manifested in the way that we cannot even begin to imagine
Walking away from the fire.

How much more the touch of your hand when we crave your guidance
How much more the comfort of your arms when we can no longer hold our own weight.
How quiet are our worries and
How confident our smiles
When we are allowed to share in your significance.